


Annabeth

by challengeaccepted, M (challengeaccepted)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 07:58:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/challengeaccepted/pseuds/challengeaccepted, https://archiveofourown.org/users/challengeaccepted/pseuds/M
Summary: Annabeth Watson is a tiny little girl with serious brown eyes and the first hints of eventual freckles. She is intelligent and quiet and polite, and she is threatening to undo the life that Sherlock has worked so hard to build.Or the life that he sort of just stumbled across, the day John walked into his lab. Sherlock imagines that John would say that Sherlock hasn’t worked at all, hasn’t compromised or shown any effort toward making their home more livable or their lives safer. Etc.





	Annabeth

**Author's Note:**

> First posted here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5604519#t5604519

Annabeth Watson is a tiny little girl with serious brown eyes and the first hints of eventual freckles. She is intelligent and quiet and polite, and she is threatening to undo the life that Sherlock has worked so hard to build.

Or the life that he sort of just stumbled across, the day John walked into his lab. Sherlock imagines that John would say that Sherlock hasn’t _worked_ at all, hasn’t compromised or shown any effort toward making their home more livable or their lives safer. Etc.

Regardless, she is about to ruin everything.

Sherlock suppresses the panic threatening to rise in his throat and says, “You don’t have to leave. She can live here.”

John looks up from his half-packed suitcase to where Sherlock is standing in the doorway to John’s bedroom. “This is no place for a child. Body parts in the kitchen and sword fights in the sitting room.”

“I hardly invited the swordsman here,” Sherlock says, though that isn’t a complete truth, “and the kitchen could become child-friendly with a small effort.”

“An effort you’ll actually make?” John clarifies doubtfully.

“Yes.” At this point, Sherlock would agree to almost anything. He might even vaguely intend to follow through, though that will no doubt waver if John would just _stop packing_. “And before you worry about our tight quarters, the child can have my bedroom.”

“You never use it,” John admits, and Sherlock nods seriously. John is obviously crumbling, never having been entirely resolved to leave Baker Street in the first place. “But Sherlock,” he starts.

“Yes, John?”

John continues quietly, “Things won’t be the same. I won’t be able to just drop everything and run off with you on a whim.”

“Whyever not?” Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. “Mrs. Hudson is more than capable of babysitting.”

*

Sherlock spends long hours teaching Annabeth’s small hands to manipulate a bow, complaining occasionally over her head that John won’t allow her to learn anything more useful, such as (gruesome) criminal behavior or (dangerous) chemistry.

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, she’s four years old.”

“She’s already so behind,” Sherlock frets occasionally, when she is asleep. “I would never forgive myself if she turned out to be ordinary.”

“You almost sound like you care about her.”

“I care about the both of you, you idiot.”

And he does. John can tell, in moments, such as when he joins them for breakfast one morning to find Sherlock’s long fingers French braiding Annabeth’s hair while he instructs her, “The peach jam on your father’s toast. The raspberry seeds hurt his teeth.”

“I’ve noticed,” Annabeth says gravely, earning an approving, maybe even fond, smile from Sherlock.

*

“You’re a smart little girl,” Sherlock tells her another day. He has just spent the better part of the afternoon staring at her while she and John watched cartoons.

“Of course I am,” she says matter-of-factly. John thinks that he is cursed to be surrounded by incredibly vain people for the rest of his days.

“I believe it’s time we began your mathematical education,” Sherlock proposes. “It is morally neutral to satisfy your father while still providing essential mental enrichment.”

“And a strong foundation for future scientific education,” Annabeth agrees, though some of the words are a bit mispronounced.

“You told her to say that,” John accuses immediately.

“I most certainly did not. No doubt she’s heard similar conversations countless times.”

“You two do argue an awful lot,” Annabeth confirms.

“Yes,” Sherlock says at the same time John says, “No, dear, we don’t.”

She furrows her little brow. “I don’t want you two to become arch nemesises.”

“‘Arch nemeses,’” Sherlock corrects.

“There are no such things,” John insists.

“There are,” Sherlock tells her, “and I have two. Neither is John.”

She looks between the two men for a minute. “Good. I like it here, and I don’t want to leave.”

“I like your being here as well, Annabeth. You’re not going anywhere,” Sherlock promises. He looks her in the eye, waits for her to nod, and then picks up a book. End of conversation. John wonders when exactly Sherlock became skilled at the art of comfort, then realizes that it was nothing so deliberate: he was merely being honest.

*

Family is important for a child, John decides. Or maybe he’s just being cowardly and planning ahead for the day when he’s going to want a woman to explain certain things to Annabeth. Or maybe he has been reminded all over again that life can be too short. Whatever the reason, John calls Harry to arrange a lunch date.

Somehow, she turns the whole thing around on him and secures an invitation to 221B, where she carefully appraises Annabeth’s bedroom, the white desk and matching bookshelf already filled to bursting, the pink blankets and butterflies on the wall.

“It’s a bit gender normative,” she declares, “but better than I expected you to manage.”

“She brought most of it with her,” John half-defends and half-admits. “What do I know about decorating a child’s room?”

“You were one once, too, John. I have photographic evidence.” She shakes her head. “So, where does your flatmate sleep? With you?”

John rolls his eyes, sidesteps the implication as best he can. “Usually on the sofa, when he sleeps at all.”

“He’s good with her.” She gestures toward the small kitchen, where Annabeth is kneeling precariously on a stool and watching Sherlock spoon Chinese take-out onto their last three clean plates and a bowl.

John nods. “And she’s good with him, which is an even bigger challenge.”

Harry chuckles as they step into the kitchen, and Sherlock looks up. “Harry,” he says. “Three months without a drink _and_ dating again? Congratulations.”

“You’re seeing someone new?” John asks Harry at the same time Annabeth asks Sherlock, “Why does she look like you said something mean?”

“People frequently take facts as insults,” Sherlock begins.

“Because he _did_ say something mean,” John says.

“I’ll get used to him someday,” Harry says briskly, forcing a smile. More quietly, to John, she adds, “No need to upset Annabeth right now.”

John frowns but acquiesces, and they all sit down to lunch. After a few moments’ awkward silence, Harry clears her throat and says, “Her name is Amelia.”

“Who?” John asks around a bite of rice.

“The woman she’s dating,” Sherlock explains.

“You’re dating a _girl_?” Annabeth asks. “You can do that?”

“Annabeth,” Sherlock says, almost sharply, “don’t ask questions to which the answers should be obvious.”

“Unless those questions are being asked for purely rhetorical purposes,” Harry adds, smiling at Sherlock, “to make sure everyone knows exactly how brilliant you are.”

The tension is high, and Annabeth glares at Sherlock right until the moment something clicks and she says, “Oh, of course.” Sherlock waits, and she says, “Well, obviously two girls can date if two boys can, and you two go on dates all the time.”

Sherlock nods. “Fair reasoning.”

“You what?” Harry asks.

“No, we don’t,” John says, shaking his head and forcing a chuckle.

“Yes, you do,” Annabeth argues. “Mrs. Hudson sits for me so you two can go on dates. And have grown-up time. I think that’s what she called it.”

“No,” John says. “No. I’m helping Sherlock with his work those evenings.” He looks to Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has chosen this moment to keep mum. “You know that.”

“Oh, you get paid for that sort of thing?” Harry asks brightly. “Sign me up.”

“Harry!” John rubs his forehead. “Well, this has been lovely.”

“Actually, it has been,” Harry says softly. She offers John an apologetic half smile, and he nods. These things don’t work themselves out over one meal.

“Am I allowed to call you Aunt Harry?” Annabeth asks suddenly.

Harry smiles. “I’d like that.”

“As would I,” John says, making sure to smile at each of his girls. Families are always works in progress, he reminds himself.

*

John is sitting in Lestrade’s office, head in his hands. Not very much is penetrating the buzzing in his skull. Even when he hears Donovan in the corridor tell Anderson, “What did he expect, shacking up with Holmes?” he barely registers it, just files it away as something to be offended about if he makes it out the other side of this.

“Pity about the girl, though,” Anderson murmurs.

John wants to scream. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not since Sherlock left with John’s gun and a promise to bring their daughter home.

“‘Our daughter’?” John had repeated, because it was easier to fixate on these details.

“Yes, John, in every practical sense! She slept in my arms on the sofa last time she had an ear infection, and you’re utterly hopeless when it comes to buying her clothes that fit her properly, as if it’s not perfectly simple to determine the measurements of a person you see every single day.” Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed in a moment, and he knelt in front of John’s chair. “I’m going to kill him this time, John.”

“Not in front of her,” John said, holding Sherlock’s gaze, “not if you can help it.”

And Sherlock nodded, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s. It was a quick, dry kiss, and then Sherlock was across the room and in the doorway before John could ask, “What the hell?”

“You know how very little self-restraint I usually exercise, John. Count yourself lucky that I didn’t do so months ago when the urge first struck.” And then Sherlock was gone.

All John can do is wait. He’s under watch by Lestrade’s orders, and he has already failed twice to slip past the officers watching the door. Another hour has gone by, the tea Lestrade brought him long since gone cold, when Harry is escorted in.

“John,” she says helplessly. “Our girl...”

“I’m never letting her out of my sight again,” John says, not caring how impossible that would be. “She was so excited to start school, and we haven’t heard from him in a year.” He shakes his head. “I never thought. And Sherlock must have thought she would be safe, too. He would never have let her go otherwise.”

She takes his hand and holds on, though he tenses at the contact. “He’ll do everything he can. He loves her.”

“I do think so,” John agrees. He takes a breath. “Not that this is important right now, but before he left, he kissed me.”

“Oh.” Harry smiles cautiously. “Maybe he loves you, too,” she ventures.

“I’m not--” he begins.

“For god’s sake,” she interrupts. “From what you’ve said, he’s not _anything_ , and yet we’re having this conversation. With you two, I’m not convinced it matters.”

John starts to laugh, and he barely manages to reign it in before it turns from a scoffing chuckle into something more hysterical. “I’m almost as scared of losing him as I am of losing her,” he admits. “Does that make me a terrible father?”

“No, John, it just means that you care about more than one person.”

He is about to respond when the door opens and Donovan says, “Come on, then. We’re going to meet the ambulance at the hospital.”

John is on his feet immediately. “What’s happened?”

She actually looks apologetic. “I don’t know the details. They’re both alive. The suspect isn’t.”

“Thank god,” John says, to all of it.

At the hospital, John’s little girl, the one he’s known for so short a time, is curled around a ludicrously large teddy. Her cheeks are stained with tears, and her left wrist is in a temporary splint. A large bouquet of daisies and sunflowers sits beside the bed, and Annabeth, so much like Sherlock, is less focused on the trauma she has just experienced than she is on what she still wants to learn.

“Who’s the name on the card?” she asks as soon as John steps into the room. “I don’t know it, but it starts with a big letter and it says ‘from,’ so it must be a name.”

John doesn’t answer, can’t answer. All he can do is take his daughter in his arms, careful of her hurt wrist, and hold her close. She’s so small, he thinks. And Moriarty is dead, which makes John smile, makes him _happy_ , and that’s not something he’s going to examine more closely at the moment.

“I love you,” he says against her hair. “You know that, I hope.”

“Of course I know that,” she says, somehow impatient. “I love you, too. Now, what does this say?”

“It says ‘Mycroft,’” Sherlock says. He hesitates in the doorway when John’s eyes meet his. “He would assume that a child could only appreciate simple flowers. If you were a few years older, he would have sent lilies.”

“Who is Mycroft?” she asks.

“Sherlock’s brother,” John says, before Sherlock can answer. Annabeth has already come face-to-face with one of Sherlock’s nemeses today, and she doesn’t need the fright of thinking she’s holding a gift from another.

“He must really like Sherlock if he sent _me_ a present.” Annabeth fingers the ribbon around the bear’s neck.

Sherlock scoffs and strides across the room to sprawl in the chair beside the bed. He is watching John and Annabeth with an intensity in his gaze that makes John want to blush, crazily. He remembers the kiss, though it feels like forever ago now.

“Are you okay?” John asks, because Sherlock has presumably just faced off against his greatest enemy, and apart from a bruise on his cheek, he seems no worse for wear.

Sherlock takes a moment, considers John, and looks at Annabeth, who is also waiting for his answer. He finally says, “Yes. We’re all here. I won.”

*

Ten o’clock two nights later, John has just read Annabeth to sleep and come back to the sitting room. “We should talk,” he says.

And that is when he notices that Sherlock is brooding, his violin tucked under his chin, his jaw clenched.

John sighs. “What’s upset you so badly since supper?”

Sherlock begins to play, a soft and slow song usually reserved for Annabeth. “Donovan must feel vindicated.”

“Is that what this is about? I’m sure even she doesn’t fault you for this particular homicide, Sherlock. Hell, I’m glad he’s dead.”

“As am I. I was also all too glad to kill him.”

John sits on the sofa beside Sherlock, and Sherlock watches him curiously over the violin. “You’re not a sociopath,” John tells him, “or a psychopath or whatever else.”

Sherlock, never one to allow someone to comfort him, just seems more frustrated. “But am I someone you want around your daughter?”

“Absolutely,” John says immediately.

“You’re being simple,” Sherlock says, but he doesn’t argue further. The song changes to something a bit faster. “Why did you say that we need to talk?”

John watches Sherlock’s hands. “You kissed me the other day.”

“I did,” Sherlock agrees, “and you reacted even less favorably than I anticipated. Out of respect, I haven’t repeated the action.”

“See, a true sociopath wouldn’t care about respecting boundaries,” John jokes, but it’s a weak joke and he sighs again. “Sherlock, can you tell me what you want?”

“Why bother? Will it flatter you, to inevitably deny Sherlock Holmes after he bares his soul?”

“Try, for just ninety seconds, not to assume the worst of everyone,” John urges. “You _know_ that’s not the kind of person I am. I’m here and I’m asking.”

Sherlock looks pained, but he balances the violin on the cushion between them and gestures to encompass their surroundings. “I want more of this. I want you and Annabeth and these too tight quarters. I’d like to be permitted to touch and kiss you as the mood strikes, though I must admit that I do not yet know for certain which forms that touching may take. It may be more or less than what would make you comfortable in a relationship.”

John waits a moment to take this in. “But you do want a relationship?”

“I believe so. And I know for certain that I don’t want for you to have one with anyone who isn’t me.”

John suppresses a laugh. “Well, that’s honest.”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock is staring at John again, though mostly at his mouth. “I would like to kiss you again now, if I may.”

“You may,” John says. He’s smiling when Sherlock’s lips ghost over his.

“I would also like to share your bed, at least in a literal fashion.”

“Of course,” John says.

John falls asleep that night with Sherlock’s warm hand pressed to the dull ache in John’s shoulder and wakes to Annabeth jumping onto the foot of the bed and squealing, “I knew it! You two were so silly, pretending not to love each other.”

Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at her. “That was quite silly, hmm?”

“We’re all very happy,” John mumbles into the pillow, “except that it’s six o’clock in the morning and I expect to be woken with breakfast or not at all.”

“Come, Annabeth,” Sherlock says, standing. “Let us see whether we can trouble Mrs. Hudson for a few eggs.”

“I imagine I don’t want to know what happened to our eggs?” John asks.

“Correct.” Sherlock’s hand trails along John’s bare arm before he follows Annabeth into the hallway, and John drifts back to sleep listening to the sounds of his family reciting prime numbers in the kitchen.

* the end.


End file.
